The Fly and the Spider
by Crazypreacher
Summary: Yet again, Mosca Mye finds herself alone and in trouble, this time probably more so than ever. If only she knew someone whose job was to protect people... (Takes place after "Fly Trap", Aramai Goshawk/Mosca Mye) ... Yep, I'm offcially going to hell. In my defence, I think child marriage was supposed to be an accepted thing in the Realm?... Yeah.


**Note**: I don't really have any music recommendations for this, but I was listening to Tyler Bates and Azam Ali's "Roseland" album a lot while writing this, so maybe, it will work for you, too. Also, "Retrograde" by James Blake. Dear God, this song.

As the sun began to slowly set over an ancient and proud city of Patchville, the diminishing light still allowing for an unrestrained view of all its filthy glory, a certain notorious young lady was peeping through a tiny gap between drawn curtains on the window abovestairs the inn with a simple and memorable name - "The Rush". The young lady in question was Mosca Mye, and it was the eve of her thirteenth nameday.

"I assure you, madam", a voice resounded from the depth of the room, "that your apprehension of the world outside is entirely unwarranted." Eponymous Clent was, naturally enough, regarding himself in the mirror and adjusting his wig.

"We seen Locksmiths' shops out there, Mr. Clent, you and I. And when I see there's Locksmiths somewhere in the town, I know there's Locksmiths everywhere."

"And why should there not be any in this town, pray tell? Lest you forgot, the Locksmith Guild counts among the three most powerful ones. I dare even say it is the most powerful one from a certain point of view, as I have yet to see someone tremble in his boots at the mentioning of the Stationers or the Watermen."

"It's not all. You think if I stay in all day long, I ain't know nothing, yes? Well, you're wrong. I hear folks speak all sort of things – the guests, the servants. There are some proper ugly rumours goin' around, Mr. Clent. They say, you lock your door an' come back an' all your stuff is out, but the door still locked. The landlady's aunt, she carries all her trinkets and whatnot on her and her friends do the same. Everyone are scared right out of their mind. Next thing you know they'll be screamin' for someone to take care of them, like they're toothless babies. The newspaper says the mayor himself thinks of calling in the Locksmiths. It's all like it once was, Mr. Clent, - in Scurrey and other places. All Goshawk's handiwork."

For a while Clent appeared very concerned about a speck of dust on the right sleeve of his heaven-blue waistcoat and then he finally said:

"Fret not, child. We still have time aplenty. True, the Stationers' favour may have been fickle – and has it ever been otherwise, indeed? - which has impeded our flight somewhat, yet fortune seems to reach her saving hand out to us once more. If my performance at the celebration held today by the renowned and respected Sir Hodge Swinfuss proves successful -

"That doggone prat", Mosca grumbled. "Just a good-for-nothin' who happened to come by a fortune 'cause his daddy kicked it at a right moment."

"Still, he is the man with the money, and this circumstance is of the utmost importance for you and I, as of the current moment. If my verses capture the heart and soul of the gentleman himself and all of his distinguished guests, as I was saying, the very next morning you and I shall have coin enough to escape this accursed Realm once and for all."

Mosca turned away to the window. "You keep singin' the same ol' song for many months now, but nothing ever comes of it."

"If I'm allowed to speak, Madam, I would like to ask you a question: why _are_ you afraid of Aramai Goshawk, after all? You saw through a plan even he couldn't perceive in Mandelion. You bested him upon his own ground in Toll. I may just be excused for thinking that you might have the capacity to win over him the third time."

"That's the thing, Mr. Clent. He won't let there be the third time. He wants me now. Either dead or one of his own." She turned her head to meet the eyes of Clent watching her intently in the mirror. "What's you staring at?"

"I hate to say it, child, but things you say from time to time, as well as the tone you employ, do disturb me greatly. Have you peradventure… done something you shouldn't have?"

"Lots o'times. So have you." Mosca blinked back at him. "What you mean exactly?"

"Ah, pay no attention to this old man's ramblings." Whatever it was Clent had read in Mosca's bemused expression, it had apparently reassured him. "It must be merely the heat jesting with my mind. Very well, if you much rather prefer to stay inside on this enchanting evening…"

"You bet I do!" Mosca yelled. "How do you think I can be out there when me bleedin' goose is dying?!"

For indeed, the once notorious and formidable Saracen who had always seemed as if he would swallow a bucketful of nails and ask for seconds seemed to have succumbed to some mysterious ailment. He would refuse any food and lose quite disturbing (especially to Clent, who now had to take double measures to keep his clothes pristine) amounts of feathers every day. On a positive side, his infamous temper had become doused to the point when he wouldn't attack at will, as it would be normally, but merely glare at not-Mosca-people trying to approach him and stretch out his neck to bite them if they did eventually approach him. This new moderation of his movements had made it possible for Mosca to take him into the room she was sharing with Clent, much to the latter's dismay, and to take the bird out of the basket he lay in most of the time and rock him like a child when his shrieks of pain became too audible.

"Ah, that demon-bird," Clent gave out a sigh. "Mark my words, Miss Mye, this beast has yet to dance at our wake. Wait for me here, Madam. I shall be back before the break of day, and we three shall safely depart in pursuit of a better life for you and I and a certified horse-leech – or, should I say, goose-leech – for your charming ward."

* * *

The dawn of the next day came, but Clent didn't. The sun rose higher and higher, the hustle of the street grew louder and louder, yet there seemed to be no Clent in sight. Eventually Mosca had to put her fears aside for a moment and go out to look for the hapless wordsmith.

She had to ask around where Mr. Swinfuss's house lay. Most people would just look at her dress (that had, admittedly, seen better times), sneer and point: "The flophouse is thataway, missie." Finally she met someone decent enough to actually give her the necessary information. Mosca run there, doing her best to keep her eyes down, choose the more shadowy side of the street and not get within the eyeshot of anyone wearing gloves. It was easier than she had thought, because there weren't a lot of people outside, and those that were looked rather wary and alerted.

Having finally reached the house where Mr. Swinfuss resided, Mosca went straight up to the front door and knocked. A butler with bulldog-like cheeks opened, eyed Mosca and said:

"Come to the back door and speak with the cook, girl."

"Mr. Eponymous Clent is a guest of Mr. Swinfuss. Guests come through front doors. And I'm a secretary of Mr. Clent, and so…"

"A secretary? I see that's what it's called nowadays." The batler snorted. "Anyway, there wasn't any Eponymous Clent here today or any other day. Now off with you, before I call the guards." He slammed the door before Mosca's nose.

She stepped back a little. Suddenly she heard a 'psst!' from behind the corner of the lavish house. There hid a little malnourished dirty boy of roughly her age – probably a floor polisher or something to that effect, Mosca decided.

"If it's same Mr. Clent you an' I think 'bout, missie, you ain't goin' to find 'im 'ere. 'Ow did 'e look?"

"Portly, about forty. Wore a blue waistcoat."

"That's 'im alright," the boy nodded grimly. "Well, Master Swinfuss thought the party was bit too dull, so he had 'is guests fight each other an' your man got 'imself killed. So Mr. Swinfuss said 'is body goes bad with the interior an' they chucked him into the river. I… you alright, miss?"

"What? Yes… yes, I'm fine." Mosca ran her hand over her face. "Where is he now?"

"Who?"

"Your master."

"Gone to the coffehouse, he said. Missie..."

"Well, he's got himself a date with some goose." With that, Mosca scurried back to her inn. However, the inn presented her with yet another grisly surprise – the afflicted Saracen had apparently finally bent under his mysterious ailment and become completely irresponsive, having gone someplace no one, even Mosca, could reach him.

* * *

It was only at the sunset of the same day when Mosca, having been thrown into a largely uncomfortable, yet secluded condemned cell, could finally allow herself the luxury of gathering and sorting her memories of the hours that preceded this moment. Her stalking Swinfuss across the city with nothing but a knife. Him finally walking into a narrow alleyway where no one would see them. Her jumping at him from behind and him being unexpectedly fast and nimble for someone so drunk. Swinfuss dragging her by the hair, screaming for his dear life and alerting the guards. And finally, her being swept off to the prison and locked in this condemned cell with no interrogation.

Despite her situation, Mosca wasn't afraid for her life. The cells here had fine locks. Far too fine locks. If those who had made these locks wanted to come and get her – which they did – they were going to do so at any given moment. That didn't make Mosca feel one little bit better, but she found it preferable to dying. At least, while Swinfuss was still alive and at large.

"If I'm gettin' dragged down, I'm draggin' him down with me," she said to herself.

And so Mosca propped herself against the wall so as not to fall asleep and waited. She waited for a long time – or maybe, for a short time - it's always difficult to say when one's in confinement. Finally the door opened without the slightest sound, and Mosca was greeted by a group of finely dressed men in gloves.

"Aramai Goshawk's Thief-takers have deemed your deed an act of self-defense," one of them explained to Mosca, grinning. "I hope you will not force us to defend ourselves against you."

"Don't drag me, fine?" Mosca demanded, raising her shackled arms in front of herself. "I'll walk myself. Just… don't put me in a sack or some such."

The Locksmith who had spoken looked at his fellow men with an air of amusement. They shrugged and made way for Mosca and their leader to step through the doorway.

* * *

As Mosca walked into Goshawk's study, escorted by a bevy of his men, Master Locksmith raised his head and joined the tips of his delicate little ivory-coloured fingers, regarding the girl with his oyster-like eyes.

"So, Mye", he said, "it would seem even you are unable to cheat death." Mosca stood silent, unsure how to respond. "I believe I don't need to remind you of why you're here. You remember our last conversation. What is your answer?"

"Mr. Goshawk," Mosca stuttered, "I… I came to ask you for help. Like the mayor. You help him, he hands you over the town. You help me, I hand you over myself."

"Your sudden display of submissiveness does nothing to reassure me. The memories of our last meeting are all too fresh."

"I own you a city, after all."

"So courteous of you to remember. I suppose, there's no harm in hearing you out. You have one minute and then you're back in your cell."

"Half it is enough. So, there's this man, Hodge Swinfuss. I want him dead. An' I don't just want him dead, I want that newspapers print out what a rogue 'e was an' how it was no Mr. Clent's fault an' that he, Mr. Clent, was a good person. I know you can kick the judges and the Stationers hard enough they do it. And then I'll be your slave, doin' your jobs an'… an' whatever else you say." She swallowed. "Anything you say."

"I hear that, Mye." Goshawk's pale wintry eyes met those fiery and black of Mosca, and, although she had no particular reason to do so, she lowered her head and stared at the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two of the Locksmiths exchange glances and grin and felt her fists clench. "I have to admit, I am both surprised and impressed. Surprised, because I would never expect Eponymous Clent to be able to inspire this level of devotion in anyone, much less in you. Impressed, because I would never imagine that such a small body as yours could contain this much bile."

"It's the same ol' thing everyone keeps telling me," Mosca shouted. "So, just 'cause we vagrants, we don't have no feelings? Just 'cause we're down and out, I can't mourn'im if he dies? Well, you'll see how I am! You'll see I'm worse than you though, that…" A couple of Locksmiths stepped towards the girl, but Goshawk stopped them with a motion of his hand.

"Enough. I heard you. Very well, it is a bargain then. Helping people is my job, after all, and your request certainly costs me no effort. In the meantime, I shall keep you somewhere… safe."

"But…"

"I shall not make the same mistake twice, Mye. Worry not. I shall make it my men's personal responsibility that no harm shall come to you."

* * *

Goshawk did fulfill that promise. Mosca didn't keep the track of time during her confinement – partly because she didn't even have anything to scratch at the walls with, but mostly because she feared even the thought of what would happen once this confinement ended – however, no one indeed ever tried to harm her and she was relatively well-fed. Eventually she discovered that Goshawk had fulfilled another promise of his, as well.

One day Mosca was ordered out and taken into the city prison, only this time not as a prisoner, but rather as a guest. She was shown into one of the cells where she, to her greatest surprise, was to find the grand Mr. Hodge Swinfuss himself. Mosca noticed, not without some grim satisfaction, that both his splendid attire and his lordly visage had suffered considerably during his justice-induced misadventures.

"You little witch!" Swinfuss rose to his feet, his manacles clinging. "I should have wrung your neck where you stood! May the Beloved curse you with smallpox, you malicious viper!"

"I was going to ask you whether you recognise the man," Goshawk's voice rasped from behind Mosca, "but that seems hardly necessary."

"That's him alright," Mosca nodded. She left the cell, and the door was locked again behind her.

"He shall be hung today at sunset," Goshawk informed her. "Do you wish to be present?"

"I might… to know if it's still him at the gallows, y'see."

"Your suspicion is hardly justified. Perhaps this might reassure you?" He held out a daily gazette for her. Mosca ran her eyes over the front page. _A tragedy most devastating… the beloved son of the town has proven to be a snake in our bosom… the depraved murder of a citizen known as Eponymous Clent… it would appear Clent had previously intended to pay off his multiple debts with his newly-made fortune… may he rest in peace…_

"An attempt to locate your employer's body was also made," Goshawk said, taking the gazette back, "but the river seems to have born it someplace beyond our reach. Rather unfortunate."

"Still, he's got his good name, if no proper burial," Mosca sighed, trying to reassure herself that it was worth a deal with Goshawk, after all. Mysteriously, it didn't bring much relief.

"I have fulfilled my part of the deal. Now is your turn."

"Always ready, oh the moon-faced one," Mosca grimaced mirthlessly.

Goshawk raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. "All I can say to that, Mye, is that looks are a matter of preference."

"No, I mean, like the real moon. Pale and blank and all pockmarked."

"Oh."

* * *

The dusk found Mosca in yet another one of Goshawk's lairs. The man had deigned to brand her himself, having dismissed all his men for the night – a gesture which, Mosca was sure, ought to have flattered her immensely, yet she was a bit too preoccupied with other things – namely, bracing herself so as not to yell for pain of burning and mind-numbing fear – to take a notice of his generosity. Not that she was doing a smashing job of concealing her consternation, for, as Goshawk was putting the gloves on his tiny hands and starting a fire in the hearth, she found herself leaning against the wall for support, embracing her own shoulders and staring intensely at her own feet, none of which she was particularly prone to do.

"Actually, Mye, I have considered marrying you," Goshawk said matter-of-factly without raising his head. It was impossible to say from his tone whether he was disgusted at himself or thrilled with the idea. "But I prefer to keep all options open. It is not impossible that one day I might have to give your hand to someone to keep watch on him."

Mosca fumbled through her mind for some scalding remark to this, but came up short. Her head was completely empty, she found, save for a couple of hundred words rattling around– only bare essentials that wouldn't satisfy even a child of five. _So this must be what being sad feels like, _she thought. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never been sad before, only furious.

"Reckon 'tis as nice a way to tell it as any," she finally spat back.

"Tell what?" Goshawk came up to his table to take out a small key.

"What you want from me."

"This is far from the only thing I want from you." If one were to walk in as he said it, they would think he was telling Mosca to do the dishes, in addition to chopping some wood. "But yes, you are not exactly wrong. It is refreshing to deal with someone perceptive." He approached Mosca, holding the key with the tongs. She proffered her open right palm, wondering how eloquent her expression was at that very moment. Goshawk slowly ran his tiny gloved fingers over her hand in examination. Mosca was trying so hard not to shudder that she had to stop breathing for a while.

"You have fine hands. The skin is a bit rough, but that is to be expected, given your standing. I wonder how big a mistake it would be to teach you my craft, but for now let's concern ourselves with the more urgent matters." He pressed the key to her palm, and somewhere between the pain of burning and the excruciating effort to keep her arm perfectly firm, her back perfectly straight and her mouth perfectly shut Mosca noticed absentmindedly that the bow of the key was decorated with a fly pattern.

Suddenly Goshawk stepped away and the pain subsided. Mosca breathed out slowly. She had done a fine job, all things considered. She just hoped she would be as numb to the other sorts of physical sensations.

"I suppose then," Goshawk said as he was cooling the key in the water, "that you will have to take your brand and my key over an inscription in a wedding register." He hung Mosca's key on his chatelaine. "But then again, you don't strike me as one who is too particular about ceremonies."

"Let's just get this over with," Mosca muttered wearily.

* * *

The following morning the sky was overcast. The timid dawn struggled in vain to cleave even the tiniest window through the thick clouds, which made Patchville look even more grey and dirty than it in fact was. In this short space between the night and the daybreak the streets were almost completely deserted. The town was as silent as a graveyard and if it were at all possible to be more silent than that, no doubt Patchville would reach this level of aphonia in the next 24 hours or sooner, once the Locksmiths had finished sealing it.

Mosca Mye stood on the bridge opposite the inn called "The Rush" – technically, at least, since the parapet was a part of the bridge – and stared at the running waters below. At a glance, one could incorrectly assume that she was contemplating her situation. But the truth was that she didn't have any thoughts to contemplate. The lassitude that had overtaken Mosca prevented her from thinking, which was hardly a welcome change. But it also prevented her from feeling anything. That was the good part.

"I hear the water is still cold, Mye." An all-too-familiar grating voice reached her ears. "You might want to reconsider taking a bath here."

Mosca didn't dignify Goshawk with an answer. Yet she didn't dignify herself with a jump, either. Instead she closed her eyes and didn't move a muscle, feeling, rather than hearing, him approach her and lean against the parapet beside her.

"It's not that I haven't expected this," he said after a moment of silence. "It's just that I haven't expected this from someone like you. I believe we have made a deal. And yet the dramatics. Was there something in our agreement I have neglected? Did you, perchance, ask me to grant Clent sainthood, but it slipped my attention, and now you're so distraught you're throwing yourself off bridges like an ingénue from a romance novel?"

"Don't think Stationers are afraid of you enough to print _that_," Mosca said, just to say something. Staying silent would make her look dignified only for so long.

"Then I don't think you have much to complain about. Just look at yourself. If this weren't a Locksmith town, and you didn't have a brand on your right palm, how long do you think you would have walked the streets dressed like _this,_ until some reprobate would have mistaken you for his prey?"

"Dressed like _this_, you say?" Mosca said slowly. She finally opened her eyes to look at herself in the water. Her hair was down, uncombed and uncovered; she was barefoot, wearing just her skirt and her chemise. She turned to Goshawk, glaring now straight into his opaque eyes. "Dressed like _what_? Say it. Say it good and clear, Mr. Goshawk."

He tilted his head slightly, as if in thought. "I was going to say 'a working woman of ill repute', but then I remembered that even those wear corsages from time to time."

"And your point?" Mosca didn't flinch. "It's alright if I look like _a working woman '_cause I mean to. That's just who I am now. Let'em see, I say."

"You seem offended, and I am not sure why. I, for one, believe that as long as a deal is honest, it is of little consequence what is being traded." Mosca turned away again. Goshawk allowed himself a little sigh of exasperation. "I have seen girls younger than you won in a game of dice, sold away to Seisian islands to fuel their parents' addictions and given away in marriage as payments of their families' debts. Do you suppose they were given an opportunity to make terms the way you have done? What I am trying to communicate here is merely that you are complaining about the luxury few have. I expected you would show more reason than that. I confess I am almost disappointed."

Another moment of silence followed. Then Mosca thought that, since she was still standing here and talking to him, it was obvious she wouldn't be taking a jump this morning and she might as well step down from the parapet. So she did exactly that, still trying her best not to look in Goshawk's direction, smoothed out her skirt slowly and said:

"Think I get down to work." Then sighed and added: "I wouldn't jump down anyways." She trod slowly away.

"Do not rush," Goshawk said behind her. "I won't need you for the first half of the day. Take your time, get used to the feeling of being safe. I understand this is a new one for you." Mosca accelerated her step. "And if you ever find yourself lacking in a place to sleep… well, I believe you'll be able to locate my retreat."

His last sentence became the proverbial last straw. Mosca's will finally buckled.

"Some blinkin' brave gaffer you are, inviting me to sleep in the same room as you!" she snapped back at him, turning on her heels. "Gettin' bored of that throat of yours, huh?"

"I used to keep record of the attempts made on my life, but lost count approximately thirty years ago," was the answer. It appeared to Mosca for a moment that Goshawk was growing out of the bridge, so unruffled he was by anything she was saying.

"So…" She braced herself with her both arms once again. "That's how it will be, then? Like… this? All the way till forever?"

"For some time, certainly." Goshawk shrugged. "I find that you are making your situation sound more difficult than it is in reality, Mye. You have come to me yourself, after all."

"You mean, in Toll?"

"As well as in Toll."

"If 'was dragged by a convoy of bleedin' Locksmiths right to your chirfuggin' doorstep' passes for 'came to you yourself' back where you come from, I'm fine with that!"

"They came to take you away. You had a choice. You could grovel and beg for them not to, and they would take you away nonetheless. You could fight back with naught but tooth and nail, and they would overpower you and take you away nonetheless. You could hang your head in silence and do as told, and your situation would be much the same as now, except the justice would not be served and your employer would remain erased. You, on the other hand, told them how you wanted to be transported and laid down your own conditions. All while being at the mercy of people from whom you have been hiding the entire last year."

"It don't matter no more." Mosca's throat was dry. "I lost. You won. I'm your slave. That's what matters."

"There is a kind of people in the world for whom everything is a commodity, up to and including themselves. You, Mye, are one of such people. You wanted something – revenge, in this case – done and you have brought it to pass despite the fact that you found the price too high for you. I surmise most would consider you immoral. I, for my part, find people like you rare and fascinating."

Mosca took a spring back. She could bear most anything, but not this sort of talk. And certainly not from Goshawk.

"So long, Sir," she said. And then ran as fast as she could, then faster.

"Until we meet again, Mye."


End file.
